


Proper

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blood, Episode: s02e05 Amok Time, Ficlet, M/M, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The night after the blood fever.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 19
Kudos: 240





	Proper

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set after the “Amok Time” episode.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The remainder of alpha shift went precisely as it should’ve. Spock resumed his post at the science station on the Enterprise’s bridge, despite the fact that they were still merely on route with no new stimulus to respond to, as though he hadn’t just gone temporarily insane and murdered his captain. Said captain sat in the captain’s chair and spoke to him the same as they normally would. No one else on the bridge even knew what happened. Dr. McCoy came up periodically, pretending to chat with Jim, yet obviously checking in on Spock. Spock was fine. He did his duty. 

Then alpha shift ends, he’s relieved, and he’s back in his quarters, lying down across his firm mattress and staring blankly up through the darkness. His grey ceiling is nothing like the orange-red skies of Vulcan. The atmosphere in his quarters can’t be made thinner to replicate his homeworld’s conditions, though the temperature is higher, and he does appreciate that small adjustment. It should be comfortable enough for Spock to close his eyes and rest. Though his mind’s regained equilibrium, his body hasn’t—he does, for once, require sleep.

But now that he no longer has his regular work to focus on, there’s nothing stopping his mind from spiraling back into the blood fever. He doesn’t remember all of it. He was out of his mind. But small, sporadic flashes come back to him, and he vividly remembers the feeling of rolling over Jim in the searing sands of Vulcan’s mountain top, grinding Jim down into the rich soil, becoming overrun with the scent of Jim’s sweat-slicked body. He thinks of chasing Jim down, swiping at him, tackling him—tying him up with primitive weapons and dragging him closer. The image flickers through him of Jim’s shirt sliced open, his breast bared, a thin sliver of blood cut across it. A shiver runs through Spock’s body, and his eyes flutter closed—he sees Jim falling to the floor, himself looming over Jim’s handsome body. 

He thinks of pinning Jim down and forgetting the fight entirely, because why was he even fighting for a woman he didn’t want? _Jim_ is the only one he’s ever truly wanted, but Jim is only human. He could never last. He wasn’t an option. They could never bond the way Spock so desperately _burns_ to. Yet he thinks of unleashing the brunt force of _pon farr_ on Jim’s trembling figure. 

He thinks of leaning down and licking the trickling blood off of Jim’s chest. He can imagine the coppery taste in his mouth, even knowing that a human’s blood would taste different, but Spock would still love it because it’s come from _Jim_. He’d flatten his tongue across Jim’s salty skin and lap over the wound, willing it to heal. He’d tear the yellow fabric wider open, because Jim is so _beautiful_ , and he’d need to see _more_.

Spock shudders and grits his teeth, growling to himself, willing it away—Jim’s his captain, his _friend_ , and it’s blasphemous to yearn for more. He feels dirty for picturing otherwise. It’s a disgusting, brutish lust that swirls in him, wishing he’d thoroughly ravished Jim. Once he’d licked the blood away, he’d kiss the rest, working down Jim’s perfect frame, scattering his stomach, hips, and thighs in kisses. Spock would _worship_ every bit of Jim. He would’ve pledged himself to Jim, all of it, and taken Jim as his mate right then and there. Even T’Pau couldn’t have stopped them. She’d know, if only she’d given Jim a chance, that they _belong_ together. 

Spock opens his eyes again. He’s never loathed himself so deeply. The urges in him are purely animal, though there should be no lingering effects of the _pon farr_. Its tremours still rack through him. It isn’t satisfied. He hasn’t killed anyone, and he hasn’t mated. He’s just survived through limbo, while the man who should’ve fulfilled both options sleeps only a few walls over. If Spock truly concentrates, he can _feel_ Jim, because they’ve _touched_ so many times.

His computer beeps, signaling that someone’s at his door, and Spock slowly pushes up without bothering to turn on the lights. He hasn’t even changed out of his uniform. He’s grateful for the distraction. He walks to the doorway and announces, “Open.”

The doors slide apart, and Jim is standing there, just like Spock wanted. 

Jim quietly asks, “You can’t sleep either?”

Spock slowly shakes his head. He’s plagued by thoughts of this one man that won’t seem to let him go. 

Jim opens his mouth, then seems to make up his mind before even getting out the question. He abruptly pushes past Spock, weaving right into Spock’s quarters—the doors shut again behind him, and Spock turns to look.

For a brief moment, Spock gets another flash of the planet—Jim standing there, flushed from head to toe, panting against the crushing atmosphere, so raw and vulnerable. Spock owes it to him to be so much _gentler_. Spock will be, if he’s ever given the chance. 

Jim reaches out his hand. He must know that one doesn’t do that with Vulcans. But Spock slips his hand into Jim’s nonetheless, because Jim is the one man he’ll follow anywhere. 

Jim smiles softly and guides Spock back towards the bed—Spock can feel through their increasing bond that Jim knows it too. Jim’s taking care of him again. Jim takes him right to the mattress, and they do _pon farr_ the way they should’ve from the start.


End file.
